Just an Ordinary Girl

18 - Swan Lake

Sometimes people don't listen. It's not always their fault but the consequences to this failure can be serious.

I'm sure the Social Workers meant their best; but at the time I was a child, most of those we came in contact with, had never lived a life where they had encountered any problems first hand. The majority came from very privileged lifestyles and although they had the best intentions. Everything was theory and what they had read out of a book. We were the specimens that they twirled around in their petri dishes. They just weren't equipped to understand the problems we encountered with my mother on a daily basis.

Further education became more available in the late seventies/early eighties and aspirations you could do anything or become anyone, burned in people's souls. Everyone wanted a better life for themselves and Maggie Thatcher the Prime Minister told everyone just like the cartoon Bob the Builder "yes you can!" Many of us believed her and some us did quite well and had a crack of doing just that. More of the people who genuinely wanted to help, had actually experienced a rough road to get there, then covered these roles. I'm not trying to give you a history lesson; this is just the way it use to be. I also don't undermine the difficulty of the role. I'm not sure I could handle that stress and I appreciate that we are human and everyone does the best they can in difficult circumstances.

One of my school friends became a Social Worker, worked two jobs to get there. She knew first hand the difficulties of life. Her mother was an alcoholic and as the eldest child, she pretty much brought her siblings up by keeping the house clean, washing and feeding the family from around the same age as me; nine. We had different home lives and different problems to face, but there was a kinship in understanding, that we didn't get to have the fun and frivolous life others did at our ages. They were on a totally different level to me, so hence from a young age I found it hard to communicate with people the same age as myself and often gravitated to those who were older than me; who understood a little of what my life comprised of.

In truth no two people are ever wired up the same; so what chance does anyone ever really have of fathoming the complexities of a tortured mind then or even now. You might as well throw a dice and see if you come up trumps and hope for the best. It's a game of chance for sure. Just like a roulette wheel when it spins; you could easily be left empty handed.

At the time of my mother's illness when it was in the eye of the storm, my father and I failed to get anyone from the medical establishment to comprehend the seriousness of my mother living at home with us. Firstly they sent her home, despite all of what we had said and experienced.

Dad and I were at a loss, where did we go from here?

My mother wouldn't always take her medication and if you tried to give her tablets to her, you were accused of trying to poison her. More than once we found the bottles in the bin and my mother smirking at our discovery. Her mood swings were erratic and life was like entering a house on a carpet of egg shells. If you moved too quickly they would break. If you moved too slow, they cracked. I didn't want to be in the house alone with her. There were times I felt my life was a risk to do so. If I stayed in the house with her, she made me her prisoner. I could not go anywhere or do anything, as she didn't want to be alone.

My mother constantly craved company, even if she did not interact with me. The responsibility of trying to keep her happy without her lashing out was too heavy for my young shoulders. Therefore, I would try to sneak out but then if I was able to, it was imperative I only returned when my father was around; or feel her wrath.

At this time, I had a recurring nightmare. I cried out and I woke to my father at my bedside. Wet hair was plastered to my neck and head. The whole of my body was drenched in soaking wet sweat, as I gripped the edge of the sheet with both hands; blood oozed from my palms and stained the cotton where I clenched with my fingernails.

"The same?" my father enquired.

Mutely I nodded. It was the same dream.

Moving across the stage, the spotlight followed me. There I danced happy and joyous in my white tutu and ballet shoes. Lost in the moment, the music of Swan Lake filled my ears, as I pirouetted. Then as I turned, a black swan came into view, who followed, pursued and engulfed me. Victorious in her pray, she dragged me and sucked the life out of my soul. Captured, without a chance of escape, I was terrified within her grasp. I fought with every breath I had, yet I was overwhelmed with her overpowering strength. My neck was bitten whilst conscious, I gasped as the last breaths escaped my lips. The black swan drained the blood out of my veins, until all that remained was the empty shell of my body.

 A small twister of black dust spun faster and faster until all that remained was a few black specks on the ground.

I was gone.

Every single night, it was the same vision.

It felt like a warning; an omen or sorts and I was right.   

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Many thanks, Kimberley S B Lieb